


What A Change

by FacetiousKitten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Body Hair, Brief Mention of Childbirth, But only a little, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Grinding, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Vaginal Fingering, could be considered public but they take steps to conceal themselves, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacetiousKitten/pseuds/FacetiousKitten
Summary: What a change a year could make.Crowley and Aziraphale are celebrating their first romantic anniversary with a picnic in the park.  It pretty much goes the way you'd expect - other than a certain change.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 99





	What A Change

**Author's Note:**

> Who took 2,000 words to get to the good stuff? Me, that's who. Me.
> 
> Many thanks to tagelied for the beta. This is my first time posting smut, and I am nervous.

One year. One single, solitary year. Hardly a blink when, minus certain extenuating circumstances, you’re literally unable to die. And yet, when prefaced with over six thousand years of never getting the one thing you want most, getting exactly that makes one paltry year as monumental as Saturn’s rings, as unexpected as _Ode to Joy_ in Beethoven’s ninth symphony.

Cut to two immortal beings picnicking in the park. Who they are is probably quite apparent.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale relaxed on the largest blanket that they brought, spread over lush green grass. Side by side in the shade of an enormous tree, the susurrous of leaves formed the soundtrack of their celebration. It was a perfect, sunny day with a refreshing breeze, and both beings had shed their coats.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it, angel?” Crowley sipped at his mimosa. “Suspiciously lovely. _Miraculously_ lovely.”

Aziraphale arranged a thick blanket into a makeshift pillow and drank a retaliatory sip of his mimosa. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He reclined, wiggling into a cozy position.

“Do, too.” Crowley began to unbutton Aziraphale’s waistcoat with practiced movements.

“Why are you undressing me?”

“Don’t want to mess up this old thing. I’d never hear the end of it.” Crowley emancipated the final button from its frayed buttonhole and opened the garment. He flipped over to rest his head on Aziraphale’s middle and to watch the tree’s leaves and cerulean sky peeking through them.

“You’ll still wrinkle my shirt.” Aziraphale wore a pale blue button-up under the waistcoat. It toed the line between crisp and comfy in a way that suited him well.

“You’ve never stopped me before. Could smite me to kingdom come and back, but you never stop me.”

Tutting, Aziraphale said, “Paperwork, dear. Paperwork.” He patted Crowley on the chest in a manner that was somehow patronizing.

“Our paperwork days are behind us, angel. I’m starting to think you just like me.”

“You think lots of things.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re wearing your nicest shirt for our date.”

“It’s my _favorite_ , not my nicest.” One of the angel’s hands busied itself with the arduous task of raising the champagne flute. The other fiddled with Crowley’s hair.

Despite his smug, prissy expression – or perhaps because of it – Aziraphale looked overwhelmingly angelic in the shade. Ocean eyes, shot through with flashes of silver and gold, happiness crinkling their corners. Pale hair, reminiscent of his wings. Round cheeks, lifted high by his grin. Pouty lips, shaded more sweetly than any rose. The softness of his throat and his torso, contrasted by the strength of his shoulders and arms, the breadth of his back.

The thing about Aziraphale’s appearance was that it never _changed_ all that much, not really. Over time, sure, there were shifts in his clothing – _glacially_ slow shifts. He was history’s most difficult “spot the differences” puzzle. Yet, he could be handsome one moment, pretty the next. Mischievous, too, which might’ve been Crowley’s favorite. But then there were times like this, times when he was just _gorgeous._

Gorgeous and perfect and utterly infuriating, and Crowley could eat him up.

“More champagne?” Aziraphale asked.

“No.”

Aziraphale looked confused, but no less edible. “Just a little while ago you said, and I quote, ‘I’ve a dangerous craving for alcohol.’”

Crowley summoned the sleaziest grin that was ever sleazed on European soil. “Not craving alcohol anymore, and there’s only one non-alcoholic thing that I _ever_ crave.”

Maintaining eye contact, he pinched a thin strip of Aziraphale’s shirt in his teeth and tugged. He moved deliberately, slowly, while untucking it. The angle at which the vertebrae in his neck twisted was, quite possibly, not achievable for anything other than a snake demon stuffed into a humanoid corporation.[1]

“Patently false,” Aziraphale said, nonchalant. “I have seen what you can do to a latte when a caffeine craving strikes.”

Biting harder, Crowley jerked at the shirt, and an inch or two of the bottom hem came loose. Over Aziraphale’s nonsensical syllables of outrage, he said, “Can you, for once in your immortal existence, allow me a _single_ smutty come-on?”

Aziraphale smoothed the bitten fabric, frowning. “I’ll consider it if you find a way _not_ to be aroused by contrariness.”

Crowley gulped his remaining mimosa – a shameful waste of champagne, rushing like that, regardless of cravings – and banished the glass into who-knows-where after dramatically flinging it sky-high. Maybe it materialized on Mars, or the bottom of the Grand Canyon, or the International Fucking Space Station. He didn’t care. [2]

“That better be back at the shop!” Aziraphale cried. “These champagne flutes are one hundred and ten years old! They were a gift from Madam-”

Crowley utilized his hands to finish untucking Aziraphale’s shirt with a rough yank, pressed his lips to the exposed skin of Aziraphale’s belly, and _blew._ A raucous, gauche raspberry split the placid scene, like a tuba belting Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” in the middle of a funeral prayer.

Aziraphale emitted a sound that he would forever deny was anything close to a squeal, knowing that it most certainly could not be described as anything else. He was so disgusted at the display that he had no pithy response – no _foul fiend_ or _you barbarian!_ He merely tipped his glass to his pursed lips. Some of the beverage worked its way in, despite the minuscule aperture tensing with enough pressure to crush diamonds and pulverize a small planet into a group of much smaller planets.  [3]

“You’ll break that flute if you squeeze the stem any harder,” Crowley said, using Aziraphale as an angelic pillow. Aziraphale’s fingers relaxed, going from “death grip” to “near death experience.”

“Unhand my shirt.”

“But I’m so comfortable.” Crowley pressed the side of his face into Aziraphale’s stomach.

Aziraphale sighed and let it go. Next, treading lightly, he said, “Your glasses are not.”

This was treacherous territory where he rarely ventured. Crowley trusted him, however, and reveled in the careful handling, even if he was too proud to admit it. Besides, the hinge of the glasses probably _was_ uncomfortable. Crowley removed them, and Aziraphale melted like a big, blonde ice cream cone.

That reaction to his eyes, his most obviously demonic attribute, was still surprising and occasionally disquieting. Yet there were times, such as this one, when Crowley melted in turn. Aziraphale loved him, _really_ loved him, and could let it show. Neither of them had to maintain an air of indifference anymore.

What a change a year could make.

Aziraphale held his drink near Crowley’s face. “They’re almost the same shade as a mimosa.”

“You’re going to run out of things to compare my eyes to.”

“Hardly. I haven’t even started on flowers.”

Ticking off the names on his fingers, Crowley said, “Daffodils. Sunflowers. Tiger lilies.”

“That’s three out of countless species!”

“Point is, you _have_ started on flowers. Caught you in an untruth, angel.”

In stony silence, Aziraphale drank the last of his mimosa, leaving a thin layer of orange pulp. He reached behind himself to set the glass in their picnic basket, which obligingly found itself within reach.

Crowley rolled onto his front, keeping his head on Aziraphale’s middle. It really _was_ a comfortable spot. He took some of his best naps there.

“You remembered the flowers,” Aziraphale said.

“Wot?”

“Flowers. The ones I compared to you.”

Crowley was caught out. A deer in headlights, a mouse in a falcon’s talons. A demon within the battering range of an angel’s powerful wings.

“Technically, mimosa is a flower, as well.” Aziraphale wiggled four fingers in the air. “Now. Are you going to unhand my shirt?”

Undoing the bottom two buttons, Crowley said, “No. Told you, I’m comfortable.” He rubbed his cheek across his favorite pillow again, taking care to drag luxuriously through the hair around Aziraphale’s navel. Both of them had a belly button, despite never having needed one – then again, they didn’t need lungs or hearts, but certain things were standard-issue with corporations.

Humans were so particular about body hair, perhaps more so than the hair on their heads and faces. But, how they ever disliked the texture, the lovely feel of chest hair or leg hair or… so forth and so on, Crowley didn’t understand that one bit. Might be that he was simply biased, as his most (in)famous form was covered in scales and not a solitary hair, but still. Hair was nice.

It could be satiny smooth, like the ginger stuff atop his own head.[4] It could be downy, like the pillowy fluff atop Aziraphale’s head. Or, it could be just the right mix of silky and scratchy, like what covered Aziraphale’s snugglesome midsection.

Crowley undid more buttons, and kissed Aziraphale’s belly. He slid a hand under the partially open shirt to stroke the thicker hair on Aziraphale’s sternum. That patch was minimally closer to gold than the whitish blonde on his head, and a line of it connected to the sparser patch circling his navel.

Truthfully, Crowley hadn’t intended to follow through on his earlier suggestive comments. His goal, largely, was to rile Aziraphale up. But, as he combed his fingers through short golden curls and sprinkled affectionate kisses across such a vulnerable area, usually hidden behind layers and layers of fabric, a warmth bloomed in him that was sharper than affection.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, and cradled Crowley’s jaw in his broad palm. His thumb caressed Crowley’s cheekbone, and those wide golden eyes fluttered shut. It felt so _good_ when Aziraphale touched him. They couldn’t touch much before their “retirement,” not without chancing everything. They needed plausible deniability if they were ever seen. And, Crowley feared, he’d become addicted to the angel’s skin, or to the angel touching _his_ Hell-issued corporation. If they had touched, they would never have stopped.

Like now. Crowley wanted to keep touching Aziraphale, keep on kissing him in these secret places. _And he could._ Oh, what a change.

He slipped a hand under Aziraphale’s trouser leg, seeking bare calf above tartan socks. Aziraphale had beautiful, amply portioned legs and Crowley could never, ever get enough of them. From them grew golden hair like that on his chest, and Crowley loved that, as well.

“Dear, we’re in public,” Aziraphale said as if he were lounging in a pool, floating in an inner tube with a piña colada in one hand and a miniature, motorized fan in the other.

Crowley made a sound of surprise. “Where are your suspenders, angel?”

“You gave me these socks, remember? They stay up perfectly well without suspenders. Very comfortable.”

“I remember the socks. Just, you’ve worn those suspenders for a good century. Can’t believe you switched up your fashion and the ground didn’t shatter beneath us.”

“Change can do a person good.” Squirming, Aziraphale added, “Periodically.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s knee. How he got his arm that far up a trouser leg is anyone’s guess. “I’m impressed,” he whispered. He lowered his arm, stroking and petting Aziraphale’s suspender-less calf. “You’re practically half-dressed, angel.” The warmth in Crowley sharpened further, tipping over into arousal, and he renewed his attentions on Aziraphale’s stomach.

Kissing, kissing, kissing that sweet tummy turned into gentle, sucking bites. Aziraphale released a soft “mmm,” and the hair around his navel tickled Crowley’s nose. Teeth grazed skin, and lips followed. Crowley removed his hand from Aziraphale’s trousers and, with one finger, circled his exposed belly button; he followed the trail of hair down to Aziraphale’s belt, and began to scoot it out of the buckle.

Aziraphale gasped, having lost that inner tube and piña colada demeanor in an instant. “There are people here! Someone will see!” He protectively cupped his fly.

“No, they won’t. They’re miles away.” Crowley flicked his wrist in a careless wave, indicating a smattering of humans many yards off. “And we’ve made sure they can’t see, remember?”

“Ah, yes, of course, we- we did, didn’t we?”

Crowley moved both of his arms to the blanket on either side of Aziraphale. It was almost a hug. “Then what’s the problem?”

Stuttering, and looking from the humans to Crowley, Aziraphale said, “Humans aren’t the ones I’m most worried about.” He darted a significant glance to the sky, then to the ground.

Crowley glared at the tree beside them. It creaked and rustled as it stretched its copious foliage to more thoroughly cover them.

“What about-?” Aziraphale pointed at the ground.

“Eh. If they really wanted to spy, they could do it just as easily at my flat.”

“Make sure? Please?”

Crowley closed his eyes, expanding his occult focus well beyond their immediate surroundings. “No one.”

“In that case…” Aziraphale fluttered his eyelashes.

“I suppose,” Crowley said on a sigh, dragging it out. “It _would_ be rude not to finish what I started.”

Aziraphale wiggled, looking like he’d won a grand debate in a Roman forum.

“Course, demons _are_ supposed to be rude.”

“That horrid raspberry was plenty rudeness for one day.”

Crowley undid Aziraphale’s fly. “I’ll do another raspberry on your bollocks.”

Making a strange, unreadable face, Aziraphale said, “Good luck.”

Never one to stand down from the angel’s challenges, Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s trousers halfway down his delectable thighs. Between them, in a nest of golden curls, was not what he expected.

“You changed,” he said, regarding Aziraphale with wonder.

“I did.” Aziraphale blushed wildly, and looked nervous beyond comprehension. “Is it...”

“If you’re asking whether it’s all right, yes, it’s all right. More than, in fact.”

“Ohh, good. Good. You’re so enthusiastic about the, ah, when I have a penis. I worried.”

“No need.”

Aziraphale had left the intimate area unshaven; he knew how captivated his old serpent was with body hair. Crowley kissed the top of Aziraphale’s thigh, eyes on the hint of delicate pink flesh visible among the curls.

Funny, that word choice. _Delicate._ A vulva did look that way, with its soft folds, its hooded, sensitive clitoris, and nearly hidden opening. But, it was made for childbirth as well as for pleasure. Past that first blush, it was tough as anything, only dainty and fragile on the surface.

Just like Aziraphale.

“You’re perfect,” Crowley said, and covered the mound with his palm, getting a feel for the pillowy labia. He carefully rubbed and massaged the entire outside of it, and studied Airaphale’s face for his reactions.

“It’s our anniversary,” Aziraphale began, wearing a languid, dreamy expression, “and I thought I’d surprise you. And I- I- well, you like wearing one. Thought I’d try it for myself.”

Crowley made a soft affirming sound. He applied slight pressure with the heel of his hand, grinding up and down, and Aziraphale responded with a hum.

“Good?” Crowley asked.

“Thus far.”

“Bastard,” Crowley purred. He traced a fingertip along the edge of the slit, gliding through the quickly forming slick. “Tell me how you play with yourself.”

“Haven’t yet, actually. Only changed this morning. I didn’t want to chance you getting frisky-”

“Don’t ever say ‘frisky’ again.”

“-getting _frisky_ and ruining the surprise.”

Crowley _was_ planning to build up to toying with – to _frisking_ Aziraphale’s clit, but he went right for it now, circling without fully touching it. He expected it to be a bit of a shock, as a ticklish poke to the ribs would. Judging by the reaction, it _was_ shocking. In a really, _really_ good way.

Aziraphale’s head lolled back, and he released a low, rumbling “Unnnhh…”

“Sensitive, eh?”

“Appears that way.”

“Must be nice.” Crowley sometimes felt like his cunt needed an industrial tree shaker to get going. He circled Aziraphale’s clit again, nice and slow. To give better access, Aziraphale spread his legs as far as he could with his trousers and pants caught around his thighs.

“You know,” Crowley said, “this is going to be fun.”

“I think you’re right.” Holding Crowley’s free hand, Aziraphale reclined in utter bliss until he received a direct bump to his clitoris. He jolted, gasping.

“Too much?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, I- I believe so.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “It was _very_ nice before that.”

“What if I tried going inside?”

“Yes, try that. Just a bit.”

Stroking the dewy, coral-colored strip with one finger, each movement brought Crowley closer to the waiting entrance. Once there, he kept with the strokes, top to bottom, nearing penetration by a scant millimeter each time. Finally, he slipped in to the first knuckle, then out.

“All right?”

“More than,” Aziraphale said. So, Crowley repeated it, until Aziraphale said, “More.” Changing to an in-and-out motion but keeping the small increments, Crowley inserted to the second knuckle.

“Hmm?” he prompted, determined to make this as special for Aziraphale as he deserved.

“Try a second finger.”

“You sure?” Aziraphale said he was, and Crowley added, “I’m concerned I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t. I know you’d never hurt me.” Aziraphale smirked. “Unless I ask for a sound spanking, or some such.”

“Amazing.”

“What?”

“That you can still be a smart arse while getting diddled.”

Aziraphale laughed, and commanded, “Shut up and diddle me.”

There wasn’t a clearer directive anywhere in the universe, and Crowley obeyed it. After a hint of resistance, Aziraphale took a second finger, sighing and cooing the whole way. Eventually, he convinced Crowley to give him a third.

“Oh, oh, hold on.” Aziraphale’s face scrunched unhappily. “That’s a bit much, I’m afraid.”

“Getting ahead of yourself? Imagine that.” Crowley shifted his focus to the external, lingering over the cushioned lips, and kissed Aziraphale’s thigh again.

“I’m not used to it yet,” Aziraphale whined.

“I know, angel. Should I stop?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Rest assured that I do _not_ want to stop.”

Chuckling, Aziraphale said, “Steady on, then.”

“I have an idea.”

“Of course you do.”

“I think you’ll like it,” Crowley whispered.

“Do you, now?”

Crowley planted another kiss, slow and leisurely, atop Aziraphale’s thigh. “Mhmm.” Then he kissed the crease where that toothsome leg met torso.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. “Steady on.”

The crease led to the furred cleft that Crowley sought, and with wet, leisurely kisses he followed it to his goal. The moment his mouth connected with Aziraphale's sex, he knew that he could eat him out for the rest of eternity, if eternity left them well and truly alone. His cunt was sweeter than date wine, a masterpiece of the highest order.

Crowley licked straight up from the sopping hole to circle the excitable little nub. Aziraphale moaned, deep and pornographic, and Crowley answered with his own. He repeated the journey several times, but Aziraphale’s moans reached a pitch that meant he was already approaching the point of no return. Not desiring for him to climax so soon, Crowley backed off his clit and mouthed down to the source of all that sweetness. This brand new vulva was so delicate that Aziraphale might reach an oversensitive state after a single orgasm, and Crowley wanted to be down there a while.

“Oh-ohhh, that’s- I was _close_ ,” Aziraphale said, and huffed.

As Crowley responded with a simple, cheeky “mmhhmmmm,” he flattened his tongue against Aziraphale’s sex, dispersing the vibrations yet keeping them shy of contact where he most wanted it.

“Tease!”

“Mmhhmmmm.”

Aziraphale made a noise of displeasure, but Crowley soothed him with a squeeze of their linked hands.

“I’ve got you, angel.”

Their eyes met. Aziraphale’s frown morphed into a soft smile. The picture of the dual pleasures of sex and of trust, he pet Crowley’s hair, eyelids fluttering closed.

Imitating his fingers’ earlier motions with his tongue, Crowley worked at the sleek gap. He released a pinch of his serpent nature to elongate his tongue. It was thinner this way, but he suspected that a little less girth would hardly matter to the angel’s keyed-up new anatomy. Judging by the nonsense vocalizations babbled above him, he wasn’t wrong. Oh, yes, was he proven irrefutably correct when he slid in and out _slooooowly_. Whimpering, Aziraphale bit his lip and clutched Crowley’s hair. It stung his scalp wonderfully, and he grunted. Aziraphale misunderstood, and loosened his grip.

“Sorry, darling.”

“Do it again. Move me where you want me.”

“You know where I want you.”

“I’ll take pity on you,” Crowley said, “but only if you do that again.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Aziraphale buried both hands in Crowley’s hair and tugged him where he wanted: up, where his labia met, where his aching, swollen clit begged for attention. Crowley used his long, half-snake tongue to circle it, over and over, until Aziraphale’s legs shook and his stinging grip in Crowley’s hair brought tears to his eyes.

Crowley _loved_ it.

Uttering quiet nonsense like “ohhh” and “uhnnn,” Aziraphale yanked Crowley impossibly closer; a sign he wanted direct attention to his clit? Crowley tested it, and…

“ _Yes_. There, yes.”

After a few grazing flicks, Aziraphale tensed all over, his back arching, arms and legs taut and rock hard. He moaned long and low in the way that drove Crowley wild. His hips twitched, riding Crowley’s tongue and rumbling, answering moans. The hands in his hair clutched so hard, Crowley thought he may be buried in angel pussy for the rest of time – that thought alone rushed such a high volume of blood to his own stirred up snatch that it was a wonder anything was left for his pounding heart.

Moans shifting to breathy pants, Aziraphale pulled Crowley up and away. He stared at the tree branches overhead, mouth wide open, chest heaving. “Oh. Oooo… Oh _fuck._ ”

“Indeed.” Crowley dropped messy kisses onto Aziraphale’s plush hip. His hair was a disaster, and he did not give a single shit about it.

Aziraphale was slack-jawed, utterly fucked out. “I see why you like it.” He gestured for Crowley to move in an upward direction. “Here. Let me return the favor.”

“Face sssitting in the middle of a public park? And I’m sssuppossed to be the bad one.” Hisses slipped out, but Crowley didn’t even care.

“Do you want it, or not?”

“No, actually.” Crowley used Aziraphale’s belt loops to tug his trousers further down, lingering over the curly hair all over. “I want to fuck your thigh into the next century.” He rolled onto his side, bringing Aziraphale along, and maneuvered his heavy, naked thigh up to the thick material at the crotch of his jeans. It was awkward, since Aziraphale’s movement was restricted by his trousers around his ankles, but the couple were as determined as they were horny.

Squirming, jamming hard, scratchy denim directly against his vulva, Crowley didn’t exactly thank God for his lack of underwear, but he _was_ grateful for the decision.

Aziraphale kissed him, quick and hard, then backed off, smacking his lips. “Hm! Mine is different from yours!” He frowned. “I don’t think I like it.”

“I like yours enough for the both of us.” Crowley’s jeans disappeared and he began to ride Aziraphale’s thigh like he drove the Bentley: Fast. Hard. Mercilessly. But it wasn’t enough. Not quite. The angle was off.

“A-Azir- I need-”

“Hand?”

“Nnn, yesss.”

Aziraphale slid his hand under Crowley’s squirming body, palm against his cunt. He crooked his fingers _just_ so, providing the right amount of pressure against Crowley’s begging clitoris and blisteringly hot entrance. The slender demon writhed, a leaf on a tree, a spiderweb in the wind, chasing sensations for the nub at the apex of his sex and the opening at the base.

“You’re so wet,” Aziraphale whispered in Crowley’s ear. He exhaled heavily, repeatedly, raising goosebumps along Crowley’s neck and shoulders.

“Uh-huh. ‘Cause of you.” Crowley’s thighs squeezed Aziraphale’s, constricting like a boa. “You ‘nd your- your tight little cunt – ah!” Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hair, as he’d done when Crowley was on that _tight little cunt_ , but it didn’t have the same effect. “Don’t. Not now.”

Aziraphale changed to lightly scratching his scalp.

“Yesss.”

He wouldn’t dare say it aloud, but for himself, Crowley often wanted, _needed_ a soft touch – outside of where he ground against a muscular thigh like it would save Earth a second time.

The pressure built. His toes curled. Warmth gathered in his extremities and reached for his pelvis. Aziraphale’s hand on him barely moved. Each minute crook of his fingers performed magic the likes of which The Amazing Mr. Fell could never hope to perform.

Arms circling Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley tucked his face into Aziraphale’s throat. Aziraphale kissed his forehead, his temple, his ear, whispering sweet nothings.

“I love you. Always wanted you. I can’t believe I have you now. You’re the greatest gift ever given to me.”

Crowley convulsed, inhaling a huge gulp of air and holding it. He thrashed and trembled, his orgasm ripping through him like an earthquake as the warmth suffused throughout his body. The muscles in his limbs contracted, joints locked in place, while his hips jerked and twitched, fighting for every drop of pleasure it could wring out of Aziraphale’s thigh and hand.

Shivering, his breath shaky, Crowley came down from his climax like a feather floats to the ground. He was sleepy, comfortable, and awash with adoration for the being he embraced. He kissed Aziraphale’s jaw and looked in his sea-blue eyes.

They lay there for a time, exchanging _I love you_ s and reverent touches. Then, they miracled away messes and set their clothing to rights.

Crowley straightened an errant curl over Aziraphale’s forehead. “Happy anniversary, angel.”

What a change a year could make.

* * *

[1] Well, maybe owls, too.

[2] Another patent falsehood. Crowley _very_ much cared.

[3] Those are probably moons or asteroids at that point, but who’s keeping score? Crowley would be the one to ask, but he’s occupied.

[4] He used enough hair product and demonic magic to make it so.


End file.
